Page 22 of Burying Venus

‘Why not, if that is what you wish. Come, Dermot, having the lunch you prepared will be a rare treat. I imagine you survive mostly off scraps,’ Robert said, gesturing to the chair beside him with a few pats as though Dermot were a particularly stupid dog.

Dermot moved as steadily as he could, mindful the group’s attention rested solely on him, edging past Tristan as the bastard threw his hands into the air and took his mother’s place. The chairs were plump with feathers and set in rosewood, etched with what looked to be wings at their back. Dermot took his place dutifully, only realising afterwards that he was sitting in the place reserved for Robert’s bride.

‘A servant,’ Weston said disdainfully, not deigning even to look at him.

Dermot recognised Aubrey settle next to him. The mere suggestion of black curls in his vision stung like vinegar, and his fists clenched uncomfortably.

‘What is on the plate at the centre?’ Thorne said. ‘I have never in my life seen such a wanton display of extravagance, no, dare I say gluttony. Must I be called on to witness such a thing?’ As his voice rang out, Dermot noted the peculiarity of his accent. His tone rose and fell as if in imitation of a man often heard but of so different a background any repetition rendered him but a performer. Worse, there was a certain quality making his preaching useless; a chime that caused Dermot’s interest to stir again.

‘Our guests only wish to welcome us…’ Weston managed.

‘No!’ Thorne said, startling even Dermot. ‘It is, dare I say, a papist display. I cannot, will not, eat this. Haven’t I always said aman needs but some potatoes and his fair share of meat? And I mean what is properly prepared in slices, not whole on the table.’ His pretty fingers danced across his chest to the plain cross secured by a thin silver chain.

Robert was as surprised as Dermot had ever seen. His jaw was firmly set, and he shifted a little in his chair. ‘I see. I can assure you my family is not inclined that way. My apologies if I have somehow suggested otherwise. We do, of course, have vegetables. But as for any sort of meat, our cook would have to start again, which would I’m afraid take us past dinner.’

That Robert had any knowledge of the kitchen at all brought him but some peace of mind.

‘Please sit down,’ Weston said, very much like a long-suffering mother.

Watching Robert hesitate, Dermot said, ‘We have some beef left from yesterday, I believe.’

The rest of them, of course, would’ve dithered about for an age before someone thought to enquire. Dermot was keen to finish the farce as swiftly as possible and leave Aubrey’s side, his presence stirring a pain so profound and unfamiliar that every brush of air against his face felt like a lash. He maneuvered himself as necessary to hide his erection and stood decisively. ‘I will fetch some for you.’

‘Too kind, dear boy,’ Robert said, staring intently at his empty plate.

Thorne’s otherworldly eyes lingered on him for but a moment, a habitual frown on his face, before he turned away and ran his fingers through his curls. At this, Dermot rushed out of the room, hurrying down the staircase reserved for the family. When he finally strode into the kitchen, it was with an air of importance.

He intended to fetch the supper himself, delighting in being Thorne’s saviour. The man who had foregone his own dinner,however distasteful, in favour of appeasing a pretty young zealot. But Béchard sat staring at the table with a dark look, not even allowing him this small indulgence.

Dermot hesitated only a moment before racing inside to where he knew the beef was, flinging the cupboard open. It was usually reserved for Béchard’s use alone.

‘What the bloody hell!’ Béchard shouted.

Dermot glimpsed the man, watching veins splinter beneath his skin as he flung a wooden board just inches from Dermot’s head.

‘Coming in here without notice, startling me like that, going for the bloody cupboards! What do you think you’re doing, you blasted lout?’ Béchard shouted, loud enough to be heard upstairs. ‘Aren’t you having dinner with your fancy fucking lord?’

Having just grasped the plate and being much alarmed by Béchard’s taking against Robert, Dermot said only, ‘The witchfinder wants beef, not pheasant.’

Béchard threw the table with both his hands, causing its rickety legs to shudder as it moved to and fro, finally settling upright rather than collapsing face-down. ‘Beef? The pheasant was perfection, a work of bloody art! Is he blind, his stomach weak? Why would you come for scraps of beef?’ He sat back down, heavy body practically sinking from the stool as his fist resounded against wood. Such was the ferocity of the blow and strength of the man Dermot was amazed it hadn’t broken in half. ‘Damn it all,’ Béchard said, those same hands going to massage his bald head.

Heedlessly, Dermot went to collect the beef from where it was stored, heaping a few choice pieces onto the plate and striding over the board Béchard threw while a few curses swept through his mind. He had never seen the chef so distressed, and this tantrum was not to be borne. That the bastard should complain of him voicing but a few complaints but behave like this atthe first opportunity. He was disgusted, never having subjected another to such a pathetic display of violence.

‘Dermot,’ Béchard said, ‘before you take the plate up to the bastard, do you know exactly what is bothering Will?’

Dermot turned just before his hand caught the doorknob. Of course, any problem he had would’ve been naught but trouble to Béchard.

‘What on earth has Lord Robert been doing? Never in my life would I have imagined… I knew Tristan was keen on the maids, but…’ Béchard mumbled to himself, fitting the pieces in his mind and perhaps only wanting Dermot there for reflection. He went on, ‘Bullying my staff? Tell me, has he been treating you the same way?’

At the first notion of himself serving Robert in the same manner Will did, Dermot could not contain his disgust. He huffed, near walking out of the room at the accusation, prevented only by Béchard’s position as chef.

‘I have not seen him with any bruises is the thing. Not a damn one of you with anything to suggest foul play. So then… I feel I am only left with…’ Béchard began, lingering on each word as if in the midst of confessing a great crime.

‘He does not do the same to me,’ Dermot said, intent on keeping some of his masculinity intact in a place that had already stolen both his pride and want of living. He stomped away with intent, back up the main stairwell. Perhaps he should’ve been pleased at the prospect of a warm dinner, but he could not be happy, knowing that yet another working day cast a shadow over his immediate future. And he had nothing to fill the void. He took no alcohol, relied on Maldred for sexual release and was left wanting, and had no time for hobbies. He was but a puppet, even if he was sometimes put in a room of some splendour, he was nothing but a cheap tool.

‘Dermot, what has taken you so long? Our poor guest has been left standing and none of us able to eat even a crumb,’ Robert said, though his tone was light. He was, Dermot thought, pleased his prized witchfinder had been made to wait on a servant’s pleasure.

‘It is no matter,’ Thorne murmured.